Repetition
by LastOfTheSummerWine
Summary: She is darkness, he is light. She is ice, he is fire. And he is her last hope. He is her saviour. BellaOC
1. Repetition

Repetition.

She sashays down the corridor in her dark cocktail dress, her heels clicking on the cold stone. Her eyes travel over the torches and stone walls, searching for something that can break her cycle. The one thing you could rely on, like the pain of a broken heart, the tears at a funeral, the fervour of new love, the melancholy of a pessimist, the cheerfulness of an optimist, the cynicism, the sarcasm.

The walls give her no comfort. The torches illuminate the hall dimly. She is frozen stiff, weary of what is coming. She _knows_ what is coming.

He sees her slowly ambling and decides to wait. She moves anxiously, prey waiting to be pounced on in the still coolness of the night. The dress swirls around her thighs delicately, as delicately as her hair brushes across her neck, graceful as a swan.

Her hands weep cold, salty water. They are wringing nervously, giving him small flashes of her red painted nails. Tiny half-moons appear in the middle of her palms as her nails dig at her flesh.

Suddenly, she is standing before him, head bowed, eyes staring at the bright torch near them.

No words are spoken. No words are ever spoken. Words are useless, meaningless. Once, they had cast her into shadows, ones she could never come back from, and now they would wound her deeply, as Regret had. She smiles ruefully to herself. Regret is a bitter companion, one she would have to accept.

He reaches for her hand and she jerks away. Soft music plays. He reaches again and she gives up.

Rue.

She hates her pliancy. She hates her willingness. But somehow, they are her comfort. He gives her the little light she has in her dark life, these little moments at the end of the corridor, every Friday, precisely at midnight.

She leans into him, forgetting, ignoring the voices calling her back into darkness. She gives herself up, tired of her life.

Kisses, soft and feathery, cover her cheeks. He pulls back, like always, and stares into her eyes.

Glazed shadows are all he sees. The fire plays across her eyes, making them sparkle innocently.

There is nothing innocent about her life. He kisses her again, and their night goes on with kisses, confessions of love. And when the clock strikes two, she kisses him and smiles, disappearing into the shadow.

As she walks away, she sighs quietly. She will be back again next Friday for the intoxication, the desire.

But she commits herself to the one thing she hates—

Repetition.


	2. Devoid

Empty.

That's always how she felt. Devoid of feelings, of cares. Helplessly waiting for the darkness to disappear.

But it crushed her, suffocated her and she fought fruitlessly against it. She had plunged headfirst into the water, not caring how cold it was, how deep it was. It pulled her under completely, but her struggles were in vain, and as if surround by quicksand, her struggles cast her further into the shadow.

He is her light. He throws the darkness off, if even for a moment. That's why she seeks him every Friday, same time, same place. Her need to rip herself from the shadows outdoes her hatred of repetition.

He waits for her. She is wearing a colourful dress, coming halfway down her thighs and showing a considerable about of her ample cleavage. It wraps tightly around her curves, accentuating her body. Her heels click against the stone.

She looks him in the eye and smiles. His arms wrap tightly around her. Kisses litter her neck. She speaks, one of the few times she does, and suggests something different, the reason she wore a yellow dress. Bold. Brave. He presses his lips to hers and asks her what she means. She tells him and he grows wide-eyed. But ready. He is ready. He is aching for her.

She works off the buttons on his shirt, her body responding to the skin she uncovers. He does not break off the kiss as his calloused hands rip the gauzy voile off her. It tears and shreds. She does not care. She needs him.

Her breath hitches as he caresses her skin. He has done this many times, she can tell, but she wishes it to be different with her. She wishes to leave an imprint in his mind. And he wishes for her to do the same.

They pull apart, gasping, panting for oxygen but not receiving any. They cannot breathe deep enough. So she returns to his waiting arms. His tongue flicks lower, sucking her nipples, biting her nipples, until her womanhood weeps for him. Her nipples are pouting for more attention when he moves down again, and he is not the type to refuse a lady. He thrusts deeply into her and lowers his head to her breasts. She stabilises her body against the wall as she meets each of his thrusts with passion and soul.

She can feel the climax coming, pushing her to the limit. And she plunges herself into the throes of passion with him. They rise, floating to heaven, then, like feathers, fall luxuriously down to earth.

She repairs her dress with a wave of her wand and slips it back on. Her goodbye echoes solemnly in his ears. He waves almost motionlessly, still basking in the remembrance of her warmth. But she is gone now, thinking of his eyes darkened with arousal, his hands rough, his mouth hot and demanding.

She stares at herself in the mirror and whispers, _Who are you, Bellatrix?_

She does not know. She does not care to know. All she knows is leaving his arms has made her feel—

Dare she say it?

Empty.


End file.
